The Blood of Caine
by Saphyr88
Summary: What if… your PC died? A re-telling of Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines without the intervention of your meddlesome fledgling.
1. Prologue

_**What if… your PC died? A re-telling of Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines without the intervention of your meddlesome fledgling. Obviously I'm drawing heavily from the game (and at some points just ripping it off), but on the whole I want this to be a very different story, so certain characters will be put in entirely new situations! I'm trying to keep everyone in-character as set out in the game, so if you think someone's reacting oddly let me know why, it will really help.**_

_**For all DISCLAIMERS just check out my profile page.**_

_**Enjoy the fireworks!**_

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**LaCroix Foundation**

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**Email for LaCroix**

[1] Board meeting arrangements

[2] Whereabouts of Grout unknown…

[3] SANTA MONICA REPORT – Mercurio

_3_

**Subject: SANTA MONICA REPORT - Mercurio**

**From: Andrea**

Mr LaCroix,

Mercurio's report, forwarded to you as requested.

Andrea.

F.A.O. the Prince

R.E. Santa Monica Mission

As you are probably aware, the Sabbat stronghold was successfully destroyed. Any survivors have scattered.

The fledgling did not survive the Astrolite blast. No traces remain.

- M

_No traces remain._


	2. Chapter 1 Fallout

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thank's to rednightmare and littleDragon14 for leaving comments **_**already**_**! You guys are awesome, thanks for the encouragement! Now I just need to live up to expecations.**_** =S =D**_**  
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_**Chapter 1 – Fallout**_

Vandal was nervous, of course he was fucking nervous. The queen bitch had sent him on an errand and oh, ho, ho, he knew full well the punishment for messing this one up – no more blood for the blood-dealer. Oh the irony! His eyes shifted manically from left to right, left to right, like a pendulum-swinging dagger to hypnotise the mad. A dark worm of paranoia was creeping up from the sidewalk and through his synthetic jacket like the damp October breeze, rolling in from the shore.

He shivered, picking at teeth with his nails and spitting out imagined splinters onto the tarmac below. For a split second, something obstructed the lamp up above him, before darkness bloomed inside his skull, and cracked through consciousness with an audible thwack.

_Shit _was the first thing that came to mind. Even before opening his foggy irises to the harsh streetlamp, and the three ugly heads looming over him. He'd not even met the guy, not even opened his trap, and already, _already_ he was on the fast track to fucking this up. For a moment he thought he could hear her shrill voice, raised to a disciplinary scream.

Sound returned to his ears, slowly but surely, resonating between the buzzing rasp of the spider's legs, which had crawled between his brain and hibernated there.

"We're going to have a lot of fun with this one."

The anger in the vampire's voice growled like a truck over wet gravel, his hands only ever three feet away from delving into Cleaver's bowls in revenge. Fear clenched through the ghoul's body, froze it in place like a startled rabbit; fogging up his cognitive functions.

"Think you could blow up our warehouse and get away with it, huh, lick?"

Vandal could only lie there, wide eyed, shivering, glancing at the moon in terror – as though it were going to come crashing down on their heads. His paralysed synapses failed to recognise his attackers' unusually specific motivation, or realise the implications.

The left one laughed, a low, reassuringly evil chuckle. "Let's pull out its eyes, and its tongue, and its teeth."

"_I_ want its teeth." Claimed the first one, dank black bangs dangling forth, "Camarilla _fuck_."

Their third stamped on Cleaver's chest, his heavy boot and vampire strength crushing and cracking the sternum beneath. Vandal cried out, curling automatically. Hands flung to his face, knees to his stomach as he coughed, and wheezed, and struggled to wonderwhy, _why_ didn't they know their assassin was already dead?

"Boys, I think we could all use a little… _entertainment_."

He struggled to squirm out from the foot-hold and get away, the smell on the boots hitting his olfactory with excrement and the reek of decay.

"Those of you sitting in the front few rows, will get wet." The leader laughed, brandishing dark, sharp claws.

BANG.

The Desert Eagle cry of a .50 calibre cracked into the night, scraping the side of the bully's head with a satisfying spurt of blood. The liquid rained upon Vandal's cheeks like sweet summer rain.

"Son of a bitch." The ringleader hissed, hunkering down. He clutched at his head like a child nursing a jump rope injury, or the worst migraine on earth, before flinging himself round to face the intruder, fierce red eyes aglow.

"Leave."

Vandal knew the clear firm voice, though he'd never heard it the flesh. The foot on his chest had relaxed in the surprise, and struggling, pumped with adrenaline, he twisted beneath it to escape. The effort was unnecessary. His captor stepped off to face the latest threat, leaving him, wretching as though his guts would hurl into the gutter where he lay. Glancing to the source of his temporary salvation, Cleaver fought to breathe in, and out, in, and out like it was going to make any difference.

A little down the street, in the shadows of this industrial cul de sac, came the glint of gun-metal, the shine of icy vampiric eyes. Arm outstretched, gun trained on their grey-matter, the Downtown Baron jolted his head in silent instruction to the Sabbat:_ Get out of here. Before I blow your brains out._ Poised and ready, the Brujah clearly wasn't going to take no for an answer.

"There's three of us Rodriguez." The wounded leader pointed shakily, his leather jacket sporting a new and brighter colour on his sleeve.

"Yeah," chuckled the other, glancing at his twin, "three of us."

"What're you gonna do? Shoot us?"

Rodriguez frowned, looking down to his hip and confidently patting the little present strapped to his belt. Obscured beneath the flapping blue shirt a 100% illegal hand grenade winked shyly at the trouble makers, promising more fun than you can shake a stick at in return for one false move.

"This ain't over," the leader growled in defeat, swinging round to Vandal with all that fear and anger thrumming through the air, "we'll find you." He gestured wildly at the Anarch, "You too Rodriguez, you're both _dead_. Nobody messes with the Sabbat and lives."

"Keep. Moving."

Slowly but surely the three Sabbat backed away, out of the streetlights, and into the darkness again, crunching through the litter as they went. Vandal watched, warily, as they passed, fingers clutching at a nearby bottle; its broken neck, its sharp, glassy shards, the perfect weapon with which to avenge himself. He almost drew blood he held on so tight.

It was the sound of Anarch footsteps which drew his attention back to the man who'd just saved his ghoulish ass from a whole world of undesired hurt. He glanced up, still shaking too hard to collect himself, mouth hung open like an inglorious fly-catcher as Nines Rodriguez approached.

"Trouble sure seems to like you."

Those eyes, they'd been so cold, so focused. Now they appraised him with a disarmingly playful glint… as though there were no strings attached. Cleaver didn't trust it one bit. The Wicked Witch at least had the decency to make it clear that she was anything _but_ human, and very prepared to screw every last drop of blood from his sorry carcass if she so wished. This one wanted to play at friendship.

Vandal saw the oncoming Sabbat too late. The shell of a vampire flailed towards Rodriguez, coming short of his mark with a sudden stop as he recognised the cold, hard press of a gun on his heart.

"Good effort." The Baron sneered.

A bolt of fear shot through the pack-leader's eyes, snarling like an animal as his arms opened out in surrender to the bullet ripping through his flesh and into infinity.

"Execution needs a little work."

Vandal watched the body begin to immolate into a thousand ashes, leaving no trace – a clean kill. The smell of burning flesh settled onto his palette, mixed with a tinge of disappointment, and the sudden reminder that the immediate threat to his existence was no longer stalking the streets, but sat above the Asylum approving spending plans. Hell hath no fury… failure wasn't an option.

Scrambling for the pills in his jacket pocket, he threw the self-prescribed pain killers down his dry throat and felt them scrape their way through to his stomach. The ghoul had learned long ago that survival wasn't the problem, _pain_ was. He would feel every ache, for every second, until She saw fit to heal him. There wasn't any point in trying to grin and bear it; there were no awards for bravery. Besides, working in a Clinic, it wasn't hard to get his slimy hands on something a little stronger than Asprin.

Rodriguez watched as the Santa Monica resident pocketed the pills and fumbled to his feet, forgetting, or perhaps just not caring enough, to brush down the dirt, and unpick the sticky wrapper which now clung to his clothes. He looked like the madman his dominator should have been, savage, depraved, and desperate, his eyes growing glassy and lucid from the medication. Nines just couldn't help himself, the smirk was automatic – Cleaver's fevered face was almost comical.

"You look like shit."

Rodriquez's friendly chastisement barely registered. He was still relearning how to breathe, how to think, how to walk this tightrope without falling right the way off.

"You should've been more careful, a bunch of shovelheads like that, they walk tough but they scare easy, just tear an ear off or something."

Cleaver wrinkled his nose at the advice, tilting his head up and crossing his arms at the marginally taller man. "Oh trust me, if they hadn't gotten the jump on me I would have been an animal." He grinned with a self-satisfaction that was entirely unmerited.

"Sure Cleaver. Guess it's just lucky I didn't take Skelter's advice, right?"

The ghoul narrowed eyes at the conversational insult, "Thought you were keepin' this on the low. I don't think the…" _do _not_ say Queen Bitch, do not say Queen Bitch_, "Baron_ess_ is gonna like all that talk mister big-shot."

The epithet was clearly not to Nines' liking. He squared Cleaver with a solid, narrow stare, "Get to it Ghoul. I don't gossip, unlike a certain sister I could name."

"No I heard that about you Brujah: all fists and fights." Absentmindedly the ghoul began to approach the Kindred, "Man I'd love to see it go down, you know, all that blood, and muscles bursting out to make room for the glistening white of _bone_ as you-"

"You got three minutes before I walk outta here."

"Humpf, _fine_, mister _kill_joy. I guess I just saw that _predatory_ streak of yours up close and personal anyway." He giggled, like a girl, creeping out the aging Baron more than he was going to let on. It was the kind of laughter that died almost as soon as it began; leaving behind the razor grin which, for the sake of a pint of blood, Santa Monica vampires had long ago learned to put up with. "Let's start with the basics, hmm? Ms Voerman _knows_ you've been cosying up to sister-dearest, and she's willing to forgive the transgression for a price."

Nines laughed, "Is she now?"

"Well, naturally, if you actually want her to bring Santa Monica back into the fold."

The hinted offering piqued the Baron's interest... Santa Monica part of the Free State again? _Willingly_? "I thought she was busy kissing Camarilla ass these days, didn't realise we were still on her precious agenda." He stared thoughtfully into the ghoul's violent blue eyes, trying to decide how far the stick to this carrot stretched back. "…Why would Therese change her mind?"

Vandal twitched; the hands which had slipped into his pockets lifting up and distorting the silhouette, "You _know_ what LaCroix had the fledgling doing in Santa Monica, right?"

"Jesus, LaCroix won't shut up about it. Keeps pumping our ears full of bullshit at every opportunity; reminding us how the Camarilla has 'sorted out our problems' for us, _yet again_. Way he tells it, the poor bastard redeemed his sire's disloyalty only to fall in the line of duty. _Another tragedy_. Piece of shit Ventrue."

Cleaver was nodding so hard his head might fall off, an arch smirk on his lips, "_Exactly_." The vibrating hiss to his soft tenor was almost psychopathically lulling, "And he went right over Her head to do it – didn't even call to say hello. Therese isn't too impressed, you know, with the way he treats _her_ domain as his own."

"Gee, like we couldn't have told her it was gonna be that way in the first place."

Hell, even Jeanette had figured that one out months ago.

"Look at it from her perspective Rodriguez – your side weren't looking too hot when the Camarilla strolled in." The ghoul kept himself back, one shoulder turned as though expecting to duck for cover, looking at the Kindred from between stands of his lank hair, and the corner of his knowing eyes. "Sabbat and Kuei-Jin, the death of Garcia-"

"You got a fine way of ending a conversation you wanted to start." Nines seethed, his face instantly distorted by an angry snarl which left the narrowed blue of his eyes pale and fierce, like the hottest points of a flame.

Vandal's hands shot up, open palmed, in an attempt to defend himself, but he continued to grin like a personal tormentor.

"Woohoohoo, temper, _temper_."

Collecting himself Nines went still, though the snarl remained. Cleaver was just a ghoul, and a nut-job at that. He wanted a rise out of him and nothing more, he wasn't worth his time. In fact, this whole meeting was fast turning into just another goddamn waste of time.

"Fine," he bit out, fists clenching around the cold, dead weight of the gun in his hand, "let's say we're game. How the hell is Voerman gonna prove she'll do it? Hmm?"

"How should I know? Ask her yourself. _I_ am just a lowly ghoul in all of this – you think I know _anything_ except what _she_ wants me to know?" he laughed, again, sending ants up Nines' spine.

He grunted in frustration, "She wants a meeting." Somehow he knew it would come to that – formal stances of allegiance.

Even conducted in the shadows, word would get around, it would all come out and he would, for better or worse, become tied to the bitch. It's why he'd never met with Jeanette in person, always over a cell phone, or through somebody else, but never on neutral ground with back-up in tow. Nines hated those situations. You were always trying to think of the long term, or how to draw a supposed ally into the fray – something vampires were notoriously skilled at avoiding – when all you _really_ wanted to do was punch them against the wall and leave them with no other option. But that was the approach which had gotten them into this mess in the first place, and in the name of survival, if nothing else, Nines had no intention of repeating the same mistakes twice.

"You, she, a moonlit rendezvous by the sea-" the ghoul was still talking, "but before you can play happy families, you're going to have to make amends."

"Why should I?"

Vandal made a face, "Hmm, because she has intel on LaCroix's latest pet project?"

The pause was audible, the cogs in Nines' head weren't. They were muffled and unclear behind his stolidly neutral face. He let the silence grow long enough that Cleaver shifted beneath his penetrating stare. "And how, exactly, does she want us to '_make amends_'?"

The bait was taken, and Vandal smiled instantly at the tug on his line. Crossing his arms in new-found confidence, he began to real in his mistress' prize catch. "There's a Chinaman who's strayed a little too far from Chinatown… if you catch my drift."

It was telling of the times that the first thing to enter Rodriguez's head wasn't concern over the proximity of the Kuei-Jin, but surprise, that Therese was revealing such a weakness so readily. She had Nosferatu in her domain, and Brujah for that matter, why'd she think Baron L.A. would concern himself with _her_ house-keeping? It was beneath asking, and the bitch knew it. She just wanted to make sure he was as desperate as she was.

"Are you kidding me? 'cause I ain't gotta lotta time for jokers right now."

He chuckled nervously, "Me? Nooo, I'm just the messenger."

Nines stared flatly at the ghoul, drawing the long seconds into minutes as he considered it. He says yes, and then what? Therese calling him to heel like a hound every time something went wrong, or worse, the Santa Monica Baron thinking he was weak, and the Camarilla were a better gamble after all?

Still, this was one hit which every Kindred would be glad for – even LaCroix wouldn't be in a position to be mad about one less Kuei-Jin on the streets. Hell, it would screw up his publicity campaign big time to hear Anarchs took down an agent the Camarilla couldn't… and where would that leave Voerman?

It's not like she had any leverage on him, or else Cleaver wouldn't even be here. There'd have been a carefully couched call instead, where she extorted what she _really_ wanted for the price of her guaranteed silence: all with the sickening efficiency of a wannabe Ventrue Prince. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he asked _how high_ the very second she'd asked him to jump.

From the look on the ghoul's face Vandal was starting to get worried. His trainers were kicking the dirt as he shifted on the spot, his wary eyes growing more and more frantic as time elapsed and the moon passed over his head.

"I'll think about it." Nines responded curtly, preparing to turn away and carry on home to the Last Round.

"Sorry," Cleaver interrupted, bringing the Brujah to a halt, "can't take back a _may_be. It's either a yes or a no, and a no means you and She never speak again. Ever. Finito."

"And why the hell should I care?" he glowered, stalking towards Cleaver to make himself clear, "She can't even keep the Sabbat and Kuei Jin out of there, what's to stop me rolling in like LaCroix and taking Santa Monica for myself?"

Vandal backed away as Nines began to encroach on his personal space, his hands up and open palmed again in their desperately futile attempt to feign harmlessness. As though _that_ would fend off a ninety year old brawl-happy Kindred pumped full of blood. He began to laugh, helplessly, his eyes watching the McClusky in Rodriguez's hands with a growing sense of impending doom, "There is that, yes, but it would kinda be a wasted effort don't you think? Not to mention a little counter… productive…" he gulped, audibly, his voice raising higher and higher, the closer the Brujah came, "when we've got information you'll wanna hear – _trust me_."

They came to a sudden stop. Nines' snarl only inches off of Cleaver's quivering cowardly nose. The ghoul was shaking, the smile which had emerged so disturbingly on his face – like the slanted glee of an axe-murderer – unwavering, growing, even, with the threat of violence… as though his own discomfort and fear was somehow amusing to him.

"Ain't in the habit of trusting, Cleaver." He'd made his point; and the demented fuck-wit probably didn't know what was good for him anyway. Nines backed off a little, assessing the blood-junkie from head to toe – disdain clear on his roguish face.

They were at the start of something here… not that the ghoul knew it. Rodriguez could feel himself being pulled forward with all the force of a black hole. The quiet tug of loyalties, and alliances, the nets of information which could choke and kill the unwitting Kindred stumbling into their path – he'd felt it before. This time though, this time the stakes were high. Winner takes all. No second chances. He had no way of knowing how good the other players' hands were, but right now, the only way to find out was to play.

"Let's take this slow." He breathed, "I'll see what I can do about her little Kuei-Jin problem, and when he's dust I want to see this intel within twenty four hours, are we clear?"

Vandal nodded stiffly, watching the Kindred's proximity warily, "Mhmm."

"No intel, no meeting, no understanding. Voerman's got a problem with that then she knows where to shove it." The ghoul's eyes glinted almost lustfully at the thought. "Got it?"

The Brujah stepped away, allowing Vandal to breathe in air that wasn't thick with the smell of charcoal and alcohol which seemed to cling to the man like cologne. The fresh stink of L.A. was like a lease of life, and, even with the pain in his ribs, he welcomed it eagerly as a sign that for now at least, _he_ wasn't on another Baron's munch-list. Absently he nodded in reply.

"Oh, I got it." He shuddered, slowly backing away.

"Good."

Rodriguez watched the weasel scurry off with a critical eye – saw him glance back, wildly, as though half expecting to see the vampire chasing him out of town. It wasn't until the creep had disappeared around the corner that the gnarled Anarch captain finally holstered his gun, and thoughtfully returned to the shadows.

Something was definitely coming. He just wasn't sure what.


	3. Chapter 2 Masquerade

**Author's Note**

Apologies both for the long silent gap between posting and the shortness of this chapter, especially after getting such a positive response! Thanks to MrZipacna and Haruhana for their shiny, shiny comments, and also especially to Rednightmare who went to a lot of effort to review both of my VTMB pieces and gave some excellent feedback/criticism! =)

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_**Chapter 2 – Masquerade**_

Sometimes the Ventrue Prince of L.A. was greatly appreciative of his Sherriff's stolid, looming presence. The weighty bulk of the Nagloper warrior was reassuring, like the shine of a bayonet at the end of your sights as you faced down the oncoming charge of cavalry. Even here in his own, sumptuous office, he might have need of the creature – the rattle of sabres and thunder of hooves were, after all, never too far away.

Tonight, however, Sebastian LaCroix was feeling the weight of his bodyguard's presence like an irritating finger poking at him – a veritable thorn in his side. Every time he glanced down at the manila folder opened on his desk he could feel his typically erect posture curve over the page. Each time he began to read the Courier New type face he became aware of the shadow on his right and lost track of his place. It wasn't even as though there was much to read – three pages in all, and sparsely populated. The constant distraction was proving intolerable.

"For God's sake," He finally snapped, twisting his head to glare at the giant, "unless there is some imminent threat to my continued existence, you would be better placed at the entrance, don't you think?"

His enforcer seemed reluctant, his eyes roving the large open windows as if to remind the Prince that assassins came at you sideways, never in front.

"Just, stand outside the door until Mr Gardner arrives." He instructed with knotted brows, "He is due very shortly."

With a direct order the Nagloper did not waste time in disagreement. He had known LaCroix too long not to realise that answering 'no' without a damn good reason was more trouble than it was worth. Sebastian LaCroix did not forget mutiny, however petty, and he certainly did not forgive. The Sheriff's footsteps reverberated through the wooden floor as he passed, opening up both double doors to pass through, and shutting them, gently, behind.

_Finally_. LaCroix thought to himself dryly, his sharp eyes scrolling through the paperwork with far greater efficiency than before. The concentration on his face turned to outright suspicion as he read on, his jaw clenching tightly in frustration.

Their work was lacklustre at best, at worst, an omission of the truth: an inauspicious omen. Nothing got by the sewer rats – he knew they had officers in their pay – and yet the information was scant: docking sheets, news reports, rumours, but no cargo manifests, no log, no _police_ report. If Gary was holding out on him… an aggravated look came over the Ventrue's blue-blood features, his full lips thinning as he pressed them tightly together and considered the possibilities. It had only been three days since the authorities were called; it was not unthinkable that the Nosferatu had yet to venture onto the ship itself. Especially with the myriad rumours and speculation as to the cargo – the clan was nothing if not cautious, particularly where power was concerned. LaCroix stilled himself, calmed the voice in the back of his head with a compromise.

This may be, genuinely, _all_ they had but even so, it might be wise to keep them at a distance. Old Camarilla loyalties held little sway with this nest, and their Primogen had already proven himself a reluctant ally. Sebastian collected himself, sure in the prudence of this private executive decision, as he neatly tapped the pages back into line.

Without any time to ponder further a timely knock followed, resounding through the doors and echoing off the Rococo walls to the distinctive tattoo of his enforcer.

"Come in."

The Sherriff opened the door, permitting their guest to enter ahead of him before closing the portal and reassuming his post at the Prince's back. LaCroix's attention, however, was fixed on the young man approaching him.

The long stretch certainly gave his penetrating gaze more than enough time to assess the visitor. Bret Gardner; Harvard graduate, six foot two, with the athletic build of an enthusiastic amateur sportsman, and the preening, image-conscious style to match. Years of private education had made his arched eyes guarded; perennially watchful for the social traps and pitfalls all around him. It had also furnished him with _ambition_: a quality LaCroix managed to admire and despise in the same breath.

Mr Gardner had proven himself quite the social climber since his embrace little over ten years ago. He followed his sire out to LA without question, wasting no time in taking any, and every, responsibility LaCroix deigned to throw at him. Beneath his arm was a clutch of files which were, no doubt, the sensitive results of his former objective.

LaCroix watched with approval as the younger man stopped before his desk, and offered his Prince the respect that was due. A short bow from the waist, and Gardner stood to attention once more, silent, and ready for his master's dictates. Sebastian settled back into his chair, fingers spread against the desk top.

"I trust these are the results of the assessment?"

"As requested sir." Soft spoken, but clear, Gardner extended the latest batch of information and deposited it on the desk, "Everything, and anything, to know about Santa Monica… and Hollywood."

Sebastian didn't touch them, his expression didn't change. It was, after all, just another chore, and he wasn't in the habit of congratulating people for work which he had yet to assess.

"Prompt as ever, Mr Gardner." He inclined his head, a slight, considering smile the only indication that he was about to offer some praise. Naturally enough, the smile did not reach the eyes, and Gardner felt again the suspect complicity of a pawn. "You know how I appreciate such attributes in this organisation."

The young vampire nodded slightly in acknowledgement and wisely held his tongue, though LaCroix had left ample time for a verbal reply which would have hardly butted in.

"Which is why I have chosen _you_, for this next assignment." He leaned forward, handing Gardner the file on the Dane, instead of the one beneath. "I need someone… discreet, astute."

The compliments were by the by, Gardner knew it was simply oil to grease the wheels. The words on the cover had caught his attention though. He thumbed the pages open with speed, taking a cursory glance for any clues as to the Prince's motives – it only left him with more questions.

"The ghost-boat?"

LaCroix's stare grew hard, and Gardner instantly regretted the Toreador-like flourish of his phrasing.

"Is that what they call it now?" he frowned, trying to feign boredom at the opinions of the rabble, and yet failing to keep the real disapproval from his voice, "I take it you are familiar with the rumours then."

"Yes, sir. She was towed into port two days ago, correct?"

"Just so. Her proximity has caused more than enough speculation, particularly over the _artefact_ she's carrying." LaCroix's manner became more congenial as he returned to the pre-approved segment of this interview. With the comfort of sentences he'd had time to formulate in advance he visibly relaxed into his chair. "Now, I'm not one to predicate a decision based on conjecture, so what I need is _fact_. More importantly I need evidence that the occurrences on the Dane were not supernatural in nature, and in no way relate to this _Ankaran Sarcophagus_."

The young Ventrue nodded, closing the file and giving the Prince his full attention.

"You have three objectives. One. I want you to examine the Sarcophagus for anything unusual. You may sense something peculiar in its presence but do not, under any circumstances, _open_ the Ankaran Sarcophagus. Secondly, the police have begun their investigation; find out what they have concluded thus far. Thirdly. Take the cargo manifest for the ship. I want to find out what else it was carrying. If you discover a violation of the masquerade, report it to me immediately. Is this understood?"

"Yes sir."

"Good. I will contact my agent in Santa Monica. He will meet you at the beach with your mission equipment. Oh," he continued, as though the next item was insignificant in comparison and had almost slipped his mind, "and there was one other matter in which I will require your services Mr Gardner."

LaCroix watched for any hint that the underling was resentful or suspicious of this sudden workload and found none. Though he knew that behind that plain, alert expression, and those grey patrician eyes, there must have been at least one, troublesome question settling into his skull. The trick, as LaCroix well knew, was to keep him too occupied to act on it.

"You may have noticed that the sudden outbreak of an, as yet unverified, disease Downtown has prompted the presence of the Health Department."

Again, a single assertive nod indicated Gardener's full attention.

"I have already had the Nosferatu investigate the original incident at the Good Samaritan Hospital and they have confirmed this to be an incident of Kindred blood-pollution amongst the Kine."

Gardner's eyes narrowed: the first indication of emotion since he got here, "Plague bearers."

"Yes. I believe you have encountered this before, when you and your sire were in Boston. Correct?"

The mention of Gardner's sire encouraged a brief flinch in his eyes which he couldn't supress. The pain was still raw, oozing out of the lingering regret… he never realised how hard it would be to live without her. Without a sire.

"Yes." He breathed, trying to ram those human emotions back into the hole they'd bubbled out of and unable to look his Prince in the eye.

LaCroix watched the transformations in the man with a cold, studious relish, knowing full well what he had provoked. "Again you prove yourself to be highly qualified for the task." The hint of genuine approval in his voice, rare and precious as it was, caught Gardener's ear instantly. "I need you to speak to the Tremere Primogen on my behalf; in private. It is he who brought the situation to our attention, and I would like a full-scale investigation to begin… with _you_ at its helm."

"You want _me_ to lead the investigation sir?" It was hard to keep the genuine surprise out of his voice. This wasn't just a promotion, this was… hell, something he'd expect vampires twice his age to be offered, certainly not a ten-year old vampire in his… unfortunate position.

"Of course. We have entrusted the Masquerade to your hands on many occasions Gardner, and after the recent, unfortunate incident with Katherine and the fledgling you have proven your loyalty to the Camarilla beyond all doubt."

The honeyed tongue, the mention of her name, made Gardner wary, but the sensation was hushed by the prospect of such a position. It offered a chance, a tenuous, timorous chance to erase the scandal which had left him on the precipice; at the mercy of his elders, with his hands bloody, and the proverbial knife still in his hands. He realised, a little slowly, that LaCroix wanted to hear an answer. So, of course, he took the _only_ logical choice.

"Yes sir, of course. I would be honoured."

That smile on LaCroix's face was as deadly as quicksilver, the low chuckle disconcerting after his typically authoritarian demeanour, "I am sure you shall not disappoint, Mr Gardner." The old, sometime officer felt again the pages beneath his hand, "I shall have the file sent to your new office. You may begin work on it the moment you have reported back on the Dane."

"As you wish sir," Gardner bowed his head again, understanding his dismissal to be imminent, "and thank you, sir, for this opportunity."

Minding his 'p's and 'q's hadn't eased the sudden ball of lead that had settled in the young vampire's gut. He was now in a position of responsibility… middle-management… in any human organisation he'd have sneered at any sense of anxiety at the task, but here? Christ. Amongst his kind failure was not an option.

LaCroix didn't even attempt to alleviate the understandable concerns of a junior elevated to a new level of status. If anything, behind that cold exterior, he enjoyed the wriggling, writhing of his minion with almost childish pleasure. He gave Gardner a nod of acknowledgement, stony, austere and unreachable: the only visual cue that his presence was no longer required, and to his credit the new officer did not waste his Prince's time with idle prattle, laborious enquiries or slow-witted inattention. Gardner took his leave, with that same precision with which he had entered, his perfectly shined shoes clipping across the parquet floor, the file tucked loosely beneath his arm, and the overwhelming sensation of being _watched_. He could practically feel it as his Prince's gaze bore holes into the back of his exquisitely tailored jacket, and even his Ventrue pride couldn't keep his head quite as high as it had been upon entering.

**Post-Note for **_**Rednightmare**_**:**

It was really helpful to hear that, I have often had to pare down my flowery language (seriously, you should've seen what was writing when I was 16 – I've come a long way =S ) and I think you helped clarify how/where I was still doing it, and how best to cope with the urge to (over) describe things. I wrote most of this chapter with your comments still in mind, so I hope I've combated the worst of it… though I'll be honest I think I've read too much not to have "ivory skin" and "sapphire eyes" pop out the minute I try to describe those things. Lol It's actually a challenge to think of something new, and often you find yourself in the spur of the moment so you write the first thing that comes to mind… anyway, I'm going off on a tangent now! Long and short of it – thanks!

P.S: And yeah I was a little-smidgen amp-ing up the floweriness in Long Live the Queen because it's a Toreador's tale. =D


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